'Very nice,' he said gruffly. 'Lovely, Jem. It looks a million dollars and so do you. That young man of yours has put the sparkle back in your eyes.'
'The shop has done that.'
'Maybe – but he's a nice bloke.'
'Yes,' she grinned, 'I suppose he is. For a jockey.'
It was still a surprise to him that Matt Garside and Jemima were accepted as an item in Milton St John. He hadn't questioned her very closely about how it had happened and, when he'd made some joke about naming the big day, she'd gone rather frosty on him, and said that they were just friends – and that Matt was good company – despite his career status. And, no, she had no intention of going racing, even though the meeting at Windsor had been much nicer than she'd expected.
She would never change her mind about racing – or gambling – and although she had to concede that all the people involved were lovely, she would never become one of them, or take part in the racing scene. Matt, apparently, had told her how much he respected these views, and even admired her for holding them.
Matt, Vincent reckoned, was a pretty clever bugger.
She had gone so far as to explain to him – not that it was necessary, but he'd remembered to listen – that as Matt was a jump jockey, and Kath Seaward was taking a short break in the Isle of Man, which was as far abroad as she ever ventured, then he was at a bit of a loss during the height of the flat season. No doubt, she'd said, when they got back into the swing of things for their jumping or whatever technical term they called it – then she wouldn't see Matt for dust. Until then, it was rather nice to have company; someone to go to the cinema with, and to share a meal, a drink, that sort of thing, as long as he didn't mention horse-racing. Did he understand now?
Vincent had said he understood perfectly. After all, it was more or less what he and Maureen were doing – and he hadn't as much as held her hand.
Still, Ned Filkins had been very enthusiastic about Jemima and Matt – although Vincent had said there was no way on God's earth that he'd involve either of them in anything even slightly unsavoury on the betting front.
'Well, no, of course not, Vince, mate.' Ned had looked quite affronted. 'But she might just let slip a little snippet – you know, something useful that we can turn into hard cash.'
Vincent had laughed. Ned didn't know his daughter. Jemima, he was sure, preferred to think of Matt Garside as a farmer's son helping out in a stables – rather than as the top-flight jump jockey that he really was. If Matt Garside gave her a sure-fire millionaire-making tip, Jemima, even if she recognised it, wouldn't pass it on. And certainly not to him. Why should she? He was a reformed character as far as she was concerned.
'You'll be at the opening?' Jemima checked the books again for the umpteenth time. 'Tomorrow morning? Maddy will let you off, won't she?'
'Course she will. She'll be here herself – well, everyone will who can, love. Maureen's even closing the Munchy Bar for a couple of hours. And apparently old Bronwyn next door is leaving her Bernie in charge of the shop so that she can be here. Don't worry. The whole village is behind you.' He kissed her. 'I'm so proud of you. I only wish your mother could be here tomorrow –'
'Don't. I phoned her and told her. She sent me a congratulations card.' Jemima sketched a smile. 'I told her you were here, too, and that I was keeping an eye on you.'
Vincent sighed. She wouldn't care, he knew that. 'She didn't – um – say anything about me?'
Jemima shook her head. 'Sorry, Dad. I tried. I don't blame her, though. Not really. She's made a new life, like we have. She's using her maiden name now. I don't think either of us figure very much any more. Still, she's well and happy – and so are we. We can't ask for any more really, can we?'
Vincent reckoned he could, actually. But it obviously wasn't the best time to say so.
Jemima switched off all the lights and locked the door. For one awful moment he thought she was going to cry, but an entirely different emotion was in her face when he looked at her.
'I'm so bloody happy. I've dreamed about this for so long. Oh, God – what if it's not a success? What if no one comes? What if-?'
He took her hands in his. 'Listen to me. Forget the what ifs. You've done it. You've got your own shop. Never, ever, regret the things you've done. Only ever regret the things you haven't done. And make sure that you have a go at everything you want to. That way there can never be any regrets, can there?'
'Oh, Dad ...'
Dropping her hands, he turned away. If she cried now he'd cry with her. He knew he would. He took in several deep breaths – if Maureen was right then tomorrow would be a scorcher, the wind was sweet and warm from the hills – and composed himself. 'Um – do you fancy a drink?'
Please, please let her say no. Oh, what a rotten sod he was!
'No, thanks. I'm meeting Matt. We're going into Upton Poges to see some friends of his.'
'Shame.' May God have mercy. 'Some other time then. Give my best to Matt, and I'll see you here bright and early tomorrow.'
'Good night, Dad.' She kissed his cheek. 'And thanks for everything.'
Vincent watched her climb into Floss, tuck her skirt underneath her and drive away round the curve of the High Street. Close call, that one. He shoved his hands in his pockets and headed for the Cat and Fiddle.
Ned was waiting for him, as arranged. His pint was already beside Ned's Guinness on the table. It was almost like being married.
'Been waiting long?' Vincent slid into his seat. 'I stayed longer than I thought at the shop. Jemima wanted everything just right for the morning, naturally. You should see it. It's going to be great. I'm so pleased for –'
"Very nice, I'm sure.' Ned cut him short. He was obviously in no mood for paternal eulogies. His eyes skimmed the bar. 'Now, I want you to listen, Vince, mate. I've got a plan to make us very rich indeed.'
Vincent sipped the froth from his pint and nodded enthusiastically. Ned hadn't let him down so far. And very rich was what he'd always wanted to be. What he deserved to be. What he would have been if he hadn't had such darned bad luck.
'Your daughter still lovey-dovey with Garside, is she? Good. Now, I've got it on really good authority – from my nephew Jace, who got it from a bloke what goes out with one of Drew Fitzgerald's lads' sisters – that that bit of info you gave me about the new horse in Peapods' yard is dead right.'
What bit of info? Vincent screwed up his eyes and concentrated. What had he said to Ned about new horses at Peapods? Ah, right – yeah ... He'd bragged that he knew the horse that Drew had bought in Newmarket was going to be entered for the National. God help him, he didn't really have a clue. He just hadn't wanted to lose face.
'It's a definite for the National. No –' Ned held up his hand. 'Let me say my piece. I've heard that Fitzgerald has bought it for some big pop singer bloke –'
'I thought it was for a Saudi Arabian prince?'
'Ah, yes, well... A bit of a hiccup in the old info system there, I reckons. No, it's definitely some pop bloke. Bloody rich, an' all.'
'Like Elton John?'
'Richer than him!' Ned scoffed. 'Real rich. Anyway, as I was saying, this horse, Bonnie or something he's called, didn't you say? Or that might be the pop singer – our Jace weren't too clear on that point neither ... Anyway, the horse is definitely going for the National. And Charlie Somerset is going to ride him.'
Vincent studied his pint. He drank some more. He wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to react. He couldn't see an awful lot in this news to get excited about. If it was true, and not just his own rumour being fed back to him, then it was good for Peapods. Drew Fitzgerald could do with a top-notch horse, and young Maddy might cheer up a bit.
'Give me strength.' Ned's eyes bulged. 'You don't get it, do you? This is the one we've been waiting for. The big one. The lottery jackpot, Vince, mate. We've got a ready-made scam sitting right under our noses.'
They had? Vincent, whose gambling exploits had taken in all manner of very complicated bets with various bookma
kers, and who had gone as far as bluffing his backers with non-existent stakes, and had once even hedged his bets with a struck-off bookie he'd met in a pub, had never known anyone involved in a real-live scam before.
Was this what he wanted? Well, yes ,.. But not, definitely not, if it was going to do any damage to anyone at Peapods, or Jemima.
Ned obviously saw the flicker of doubt. 'Don't sweat, Vince, mate. What I'm saying is that with this Bonnie horse and Dragon Slayer in the village and both going for the National, we're going to make ourselves a fortune come next April. We've got ourselves nearly nine months to do the groundwork. Nine months' hard labour – and then a life of luxury. What do you say to that, then?'
Vincent nodded. That sounded okay. Ned was going to start placing bets on both horses while their odds were still being quoted at a phenomenal price. 'I reckon we better get started as soon as possible before anyone else catches on.'
'That's what I hoped you'd say.' Ned clapped Vincent's shoulder and stood up. "nother pint, Vince old son? To celebrate?'
Chapter Fifteen
Less than thirty minutes to blast-off. Jemima, who hadn't slept, paced the sisal floor, looking at the clock. Surely there was something wrong with the hands? She was convinced that they'd been pointing to 9.33 four hours ago.
A veiled sun, primrose yellow, cast misty shadows through the windows. The shop was cathedral quiet. The books were closely packed in their multicoloured rows, and Jemima ran her fingers along the corrugations of the massed spines, praying that by the time she bolted the door at five there would be satisfying chunks of emptiness on the shelves.
Everything was ready. The bottles of wine – red already corked on the tables with dishes of nibbles from Maureen; white in the fridge along with huge jugs of fruit juice – were waiting with a phalanx of wineglasses courtesy of the Cat and Fiddle. The chairs and tables and beanbags were placed at customer-enticing angles; the walls were gaudy with dozens of posters all proclaiming this year's hottest seller. A pile of dark-green bags with gold lettering – recycled paper, naturally – were stacked in an optimistic pile by the till. The shop was ready. She couldn't do any more. Now it was down to the customers.
Would there be any? What if no one came? Where were they?
She peered through the bottle-glass distortion of the door, holding her breath. God! There was a massive crowd outside! She took off her glasses and peered again. Well, not so much a crowd – more a clump. Her spectacles and the optical illusion of the window had made everyone look like two-and-a-half people. Thank goodness for that. Two-and-a-half Bathsheba Cox's storming through her Adult Fiction section was a pretty scary prospect. Her last-minute decision not to put her stack of Fishnets on display for the opening was, she felt, probably wise. No point in alienating half her clientele on her very first morning in business.
Jemima wiped her hands down her purple skirt. Her opening-day outfit – something she hadn't even thought about until the last minute – was very similar to her long skirt and matching vest of yesterday. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Matt had said last night that she looked lovely, and that her hair, escaping from its clip in silky strands, was amazingly sexy. She'd received these comments with cool acceptance, but inside, she'd glowed with pleasure. She was beginning to become very fond of Matt. They never discussed his job. The friendship would be fine for the summer – she blanked out what might happen in the autumn when he started racing again.
Still, she glanced again at the clock, those sort of things could be worried about in a million years' time. Right now, this was the biggest moment of her life. Five more minutes. She was determined not to jump the gun and yank the doors open early. She was going to be cool and professional if it killed her.
She stood in the middle of the floor. There was a faint crackle from the speakers. Her audio book sessions would start tomorrow; having completely forgotten about providing any background music, she'd loaded the deck with tapes nicked from Levi and Zeke. Some of them were totally unsuitable but, as they ranged from Postman Pat to the anarchic rap of Fizz Flanagan, she was sure there'd be something for everyone. Just like her books.
It was an odd thing, she thought, as the clock's hands clambered towards the top of the hour, to have reached nearly thirty and never possessed anything before. Apart from Floss and her ragbag of clothes, this shop represented the first stability in her life. Most women of her age had mortgages on red-brick security and Ikea furniture and zippy little Golf GTIs which they upgraded every year. She had had nothing. Until now.
Okay. Ten o'clock. She took a deep breath and walked towards the door. This was the most terrifyingly exciting moment of her entire life. Just for a split second she froze on the spot. Would she ever cope? All those people – they'd all be staring at her! She'd be centre stage – when she'd far rather be huddling in the wings.
Then she thought about Vincent, and how proud he'd been last night, and Matt's encouragement, and about the card she'd had from her mother, and the good-luck bunch of flowers from Laura and the ex-Bookworms. She'd also had a home-made card from Levi and Zeke which depicted a lot of aliens on motor bikes, and more normal ones – all with Bronwyn Pugh's distinctive orange price stickers half-scraped off on the back – from most of the villagers. They believed in her. It was time she started believing in herself.
She wrenched the bolts back, turned the key, and opened the door.
It couldn't, as she thought afterwards, have been described as a stampede – but it was certainly a very satisfying surge. And she needn't have worried about being stared at. No one gave her more than a passing glance, a quick smile, a hasty good morning, before they homed in on the shelves and the refreshments. Reeling slightly, she realised that she had underestimated the enthusiasm generated in a village by any new arrival. It didn't matter whether it was animal, vegetable or mineral; the overwhelming rural curiosity was dying to be satisfied.
Helping Gillian at a couple of Bring and Buys in the back room of the Cat and Fiddle should have prepared her for Milton St John's jumble-sale mentality. Nothing was left uninvestigated. People were two or three deep round everything. She'd planned to stand behind the counter and announce that everyone should help themselves to refreshments and browse at their leisure. They wouldn't have heard her if she'd tried, she thought, biting back a grin. All the glasses were being filled – Milton St John never believed in waiting until the sun was over the yard arm – and the plates piled, as the books were tugged from the shelves.
Levi and Zeke, along with most of their classmates – it was by accident rather than design the first day of the school's summer break – had turned up Fizz Flanagan to disco level and were bouncing up and down on the beanbags with a selection of Barbara Taylor-Bradfords. Poppy Scarlet, dumped by Maddy in the middle of the beanbag mayhem, gurgled on a rusk and bounced along with them.
Vincent hugged her and planted a huge kiss on her cheek. 'All your hard work has paid off, Jem, love. Oh, bugger – I'm going to cry.'
'Don't you dare,' she said severely. 'You go and stop those kids from wrecking the beanbags – and only tell me it's a success when I make my first million.'
'Bloody incredible.' Matt appeared beside her. 'Oh ye of little faith. Where're the biographies? You have got an entire section on Lester Piggott, I take it?'
She punched him happily.
'Told you it would be brilliant, didn't I?' Gillian shouted as she passed, a couple of novels by Norma Curtis tucked under her arm. 'And I'm so glad we're mates again. I'd've hated to miss this.'
Jemima was glad they were mates again, too. The week after Windsor had been difficult, with neither Glen nor the twins knowing why she and Gillian were barely speaking. But gradually, as with most fallings-out, the atmosphere had defrosted, and she and Gillian had once again been able to sit, curled on the floor in the Vicarage flat, and get very squiffy on a couple of bottles of Valpolicella. Most things had been sorted out in a rather weepy alcoholic haze.
Ther
e would be absolutely no need, Gillian had assured her, for her to become involved with her racehorse. Drew was going to take care of everything. Ownership, when necessary, would be made public – and hang the consequences. She was very sorry to have upset Jemima; it was just the excitement of the moment.
They'd hugged and opened the second bottle. Vincent had been discussed in passing, and Matt Garside in more depth. The source of Gillian's finances had been hinted at – Jemima had gathered it was something to do with an advance on a novel that Gillian didn't want Glen to know about until the contracts were signed in case he was disappointed – although she may have misunderstood this point – and they'd sworn each other to secrecy about Gillian's new 'baby' who was eating his head off at Peapods, and Jemima's background, and then, still rather weepily, had watched Steel Magnolias.
Jemima watched the villagers swarm in and out of the shelves. No one had actually bought anything yet, of course, but there was plenty of time. It was just such a good feeling to stand here and watch them bringing her dreams to reality.
All the villagers were there. Even the ones who had looked askance when she had told them what she planned to do. Most of the trainers, the stable staff, several jockeys, and a whole flush of people from the new estate on the Upton Poges road, had turned up.
The Bath Oliver brigade from the Munchy Bar were mulling over the row of Patrick O'Brians, there was a scramble from the St Hilda's girls for the Elizabeth James and several of the stable lads had a new Bernard Cornwell in their hands.
Jemima stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the heads. Vincent, bless him, having read the riot act to Levi and Zeke, was now acting as tour guide as though the shop had the floor space of the Waterstones in Charing Cross Road. And, if the sea of white Orion cardigans round the Ann Pursers was anything to go by, Bathsheba and Bronwyn must have marshalled the entire massed ranks of the WI.
Jemima blinked back her tears. Oh, sod it. Her glasses were misting up. She removed them, wiping the lenses on the hem of her purple skirt.
Jumping to Conclusions Page 17